Circles of Time (7 page)

“You're probably more capable of that than I am. I keep remembering Alex when we were at school and one had to practically sit on her to keep her from talking. Now she's so quiet, and Anthony's raised ignoring her presence to a fine art. I find it very upsetting, and I'm upset enough as it is.”

He parked in front of the house and then helped her out of the car. She was in her middle twenties, tall and full-bodied. Small breasts and boyish figures were in vogue, but her Junoesque bearing caused heads to turn. Her light brown hair was neatly bobbed, complimenting a round face, small, up-tilted nose, and hazel eyes. An active, athletic girl, she resented having to be helped from the car, but her morning sickness had been extreme lately and left her weak in the knees.

The butler had seen them arrive and held the door open as they came up the front steps.

“Good evening, Coatsworth,” Fenton said.

Coatsworth had been with the Greville family for over forty years and no one considered it strange that he wore carpet slippers with his livery. He was old and arthritic, but an institution—like the Tower of London or Big Ben.

“Good evening, Colonel—Lady Winifred.”

“How are you feeling?” Winifred asked.

“Quite well, all things considered.”

“Did you try that ointment I sent over?”

“I did indeed, Lady Winifred. Quite beneficial.”

He led them toward the drawing room, walking slowly and stiffly down the marble-floored corridor. Fenton touched his arm gently. “You needn't bother, Coatsworth. We can show ourselves in.”

“Oh, it's no bother, Colonel. One likes to feel useful.”

If Winifred expected overtones of tension due to the earl's presence, none were apparent. Lord Stanmore was a good host, warmly affable and talkative. He supervised the mixing of a new cocktail he had been told about—a Manhattan: “Whiskey, sweet vermouth, dash of bitters, and a cherry garnish—ice optional, but why weaken the mixture with cold water, eh?” It was obvious, however, that he ignored Alexandra in subtle ways, by talking over her or around her. Not once did he ask her a direct question or refer to her in any way. She appeared to accept this and, in her turn, avoided talking directly to him. It was managed so artfully that a stranger would not have been aware of it.

The dinner conversation was light and airy. The women discussed the latest fashions and the varied upcoming events of the summer social season, while the men talked among themselves about cricket, racing at Ascot, and the effect of Prohibition in America on the Scotch whiskey distillers. Then Lord Stanmore shifted the discussion to Abingdon Pryory.

“By God, Fenton, how I wish your father were alive. Now
there
was an architect for you. He could draw the plans and, if need be, hew stone, lay brick, or pour cement. How old were you when he first brought you to see the place?”

“Eight or nine. He'd just been knighted for his work at Sandringham House.”

“The queen should have raised him to the peerage, by George. What splendid work he did for her there, and at Balmoral. But nothing compared to what he did at the Pryory.”

“It almost seems like yesterday,” Hanna said. “Sir Harold and his two little boys. We sent a carriage to meet you at Godalming. Do you remember that, Fenton? The matched bays and the grooms in livery?”

Fenton smiled at her. “I do indeed. It makes me feel positively ancient. Can you imagine a phaeton and team driving into Godalming station these days?”

“Ah,” she laughed, “but that was prewar—pre-
Boer
War. You have a right to feel ancient.”

The earl cut a slice of roast lamb and popped it into his mouth.

“Old and decrepit at thirty-two, eh, Fenton? Lucky, I call it. You were blessed to have seen those times. Victoria on the throne—peace on earth—the very zenith of civilization.”

“But the seeds had been planted, Papa. Wouldn't you say that?”

He paused in the act of loading his fork with peas and roast potato and looked down the table at his daughter. “What seeds are you referring to?”

“The ones that grew into monsters,” Alexandra said. “The ones that burst upon us in nineteen fourteen. Beneath that heavenly zenith you refer to, there must have been something dark and ugly, something fundamentally wrong with the world.”

“If there was,” he replied coolly, “I for one was not aware of it.”

“I don't suppose many people were. I imagine that's part of our English character—a tendency to ignore the unpleasant.”

There was a moment of strained silence, and then Hanna looked across the table at Winifred and said brightly: “I forgot to ask about the twins. How are the darlings?”

Winifred choked down what was in her mouth. “Very well.” She coughed discreetly and held a napkin to her lips.

“I'd not call them darlings,” Fenton said quickly. “They're the most devilish four-year-old children in existence.”

“Girls aren't supposed to be any trouble,” Hanna said. “Perhaps you need a new nanny.”

Alexandra dabbed at her plate with a fork, the food virtually untouched. “We avoid the unpleasant and condemn the truth. As an example of what I mean, there was a letter in today's
Times
from some retired general, harshly, and most unfairly, criticizing cousin Martin's book. Did you read it, Papa?”

“I did not. But I'm hardly surprised. Martin sent us a copy before publication.” He gave Hanna a brief, apologetic smile. “Personally, I'm very fond of Martin and have always been proud to be his uncle, if only through marriage. However, I found the book to be unduly bitter in tone and excessively caustic. What on earth's the point of it? The war is behind us now, all over and done.”

“Just bury the dead?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“In Martin's view that's not possible, not until we grasp the reality of so many graves. The waste of it all.”

“We can blame the Kaiser for that.”

“Can we? The guilt's too enormous not to be shared. English generals squandered lives as callously as German ones. I'm sure Fenton would agree.”

“I'm in rather enough trouble with the brass as it is, Alex,” said Fenton lightly. “The very walls have ears.”

William laughed. “I shan't tell on you. I rarely see generals at the jazz clubs.”

“Which reminds me, William,” the earl said, anxious to change the subject. “Must you play those infernal records of yours half the night?”

“I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't aware you could hear them.”

“Hear them! The house vibrates with the sound.”

Alexandra wet her lips with wine and set the glass back on the table. Her hand was trembling and some of the wine spilled on the cloth.

“Are you really in trouble, Fenton?”

“Perhaps ‘trouble' is too big a word to use.”

“Your career is under a cloud, isn't it?”

“A slight shadow, let's say.”

“Because of your involvement with Charles's court-martial?”

“Now look here, Alex,” the earl said. “I don't like the drift of the conversation. We do not discuss the war at dinner, nor do I think it appropriate to discuss Charles at this time. I don't like to be dictatorial, but I must insist.”

“I don't consider you to be dictatorial, just closed-minded. Whenever I've attempted to talk about Charles, at dinner or any other time, you've turned a deaf ear. Don't you understand, Papa? As long as Charles is shut away, the war will always be a presence in this house whether we discuss it or not. I used to talk with Robin about it. He was a fine doctor and had strong views on shell shock. One of the things he believed in …” She paused, her eyes meeting her father's cold stare. “But you're not interested in anything Robin Mackendric might have said, are you?”

“To be frank, no.”

“That's a pity.”

“It may be, but you live in my house. Kindly respect that fact, Alexandra.”

The dinner finished quickly and in virtual silence. Then the after-dinner ritual was observed, the ladies going into the drawing room, the men remaining at the table while Coatsworth served port and cigars. William, squirming in his seat, glanced at his wristwatch.

“May I be excused, Father? I have some boning up to do—on criminal codes.”

“Of course,” the earl said listlessly. He toyed with his glass of port while William said his goodbyes to Fenton and hurriedly left the room.

“He'll be out the front door like a cannon shot. Be back after midnight, tipsy more than likely.”

“Youth must have its fling,” Fenton murmured before taking a sip of wine.

“I'm sorry about the dinner. Rather a waste of a damn fine saddle of lamb. I can't for the life of me understand what got into Alexandra.”

“Can't you?”

The earl scowled at his glass as he turned it slowly between his fingers. “You couldn't be closer to me, Fenton, if you were my own son. I can talk to you with honesty. I—well, dash it all, I can't forgive the girl. I regret the day she came home and brought that child with her.”

“
That
child has a name.”

The earl glanced up sharply, then sat back in his chair. He looked drawn and tired. “Colin. There's never been a Greville with a Scot's name. Never been a Greville, as far as I know, born within an inch of the bar sinister. Call me what you will, but, damn it, sir, there are codes of behavior that one must live by or the world will revert to barbarism.”

“With all respect, sir, we've just witnessed four years of barbarism. Alex's fall from grace seems rather puny in comparison. I won't presume to question the validity of your moral convictions, but if Alex has some fresh viewpoint regarding Charles—”

“The man is shell-shocked,” the earl said firmly. “Damn it, Fenton, my son wouldn't have been committed to a hospital if he weren't. It may be a damn hard bullet to chew, but in all probability he'll be shut away for the rest of his life.”

Fenton's right hand began to twitch. He put down his glass and placed the offending member under the table and slapped it against his leg. It was his own symptom of shell shock, a muscle spasm that would occur unexpectedly and cause the fingers to stiffen and the thumb to jerk. It often happened when he was reviewing the men, and he had solved the problem by shoving the hand in his pocket. It gave him a nonchalant air that always pleased the troops—
“The bloomin' ol' Hawk's a proper toff, he is!”

The hand had first betrayed him one morning at Hill 60 when he had ordered D Company over in support of the Royal Warwicks, who were floundering in the German wire. The move had been anticipated, and when the men had gone fifty yards from the trench, nested machine guns had caught them in a crossfire and all he could do was watch them die. He had wanted to scream in horror and rage, but that would have been an unthinkable—and unpardonable—thing to do in front of the men. His hand had done the screaming for him, as it still screamed from time to time in moments of stress.

“Shell shock is an odd thing,” he said with forced calm. “It can destroy a man's mind or merely numb it. No one who spent any time at all in the line came away totally untouched. It's not a disease but a compound of ghastliness, an accumulated burden of horrors. Charles had more than his share of shocks and withdrew into a safe world of his own, but that doesn't mean he can never come out of it.”

“I've been led to believe otherwise. He's been in this state since nineteen seventeen. At peace with himself, Fenton. Attempting to bring him back to reality could snap his mind completely. He functions—dresses and undresses himself, feeds himself, goes for walks. He seems blissfully content in his dreams and should be left alone. I will not tolerate interference from Alexandra in this matter.”

Fenton's mouth felt dry as brass and he wet his lips with port.

“From what I can gather, Colonel Mackendric had some rather positive ideas for treatment of shell-shock cases. I imagine he passed those views on to Alex.”

Lord Stanmore stood up with icy calm. “I know for certain of only one thing that Colonel Mackendric
passed on
to her. I'm not interested in any other. If you will excuse me, Fenton, I have work to do. Kindly extend my apologies to the ladies.”

Fenton continued to sit at the table until the spasms in his hand began to ease; then, leaving the port—which always reminded him of blood—he went in search of a whiskey.

H
E LET
W
INIFRED
out in front of her father's house in Cadogan Square, waited at the curb until one of the footmen had hurried out to help her up the steps, then drove around the corner and parked his car in Pavillion Road. It was barely ten o'clock and he felt keyed up and edgy. It had been an unsettling evening, especially for Winifred, who had said nothing since leaving the Grevilles. She was in an emotional turmoil as it was, and the conversation at dinner hadn't helped her frame of mind.